Imperfect Heirs
by Ariaeris
Summary: Neither was the ideal pureblood heir; too impure, too unchained, too in love. Together though, they were an imperfect perfection. Marcus/Harry. Slash obviously. Expansion of vairetwilight's story, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.
1. Chapter 1: Onset

Hello everyone!

This little fic (which shall be little - three chapters at most I believe) is the result of vairetwilight's ever so sweet birthday fic (despite it being a few days early) that was inspired by a discussion between the two of us. Perhaps a brief timeline would be best: I wrote a short Marcus/Harry drabble for my friend Abby in my drabble series, _Harry's Chosen One_, which led to a discussion with Vaire, which consequently led to Vaire writing her own fic, _The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black_, which I recommend reading (and reviewing - show her some love!)

Anyway, I loved it and loved her as well, so I thought I would expand on her idea a bit. So, this chapter will be a prequel to that story, and then I will get around to posting a sequel to Vaire's story and then maybe a second sequel after that. To truly understand this story and its following sequels, you will probably want to read Vaire's fic (yes, I am shamelessly advertising for her - she deserves it!) but I suppose you could at least read this chapter on its own.

On a separate note, this will be my first actual chaptered story. Hopefully all you readers will like it.

At the risk of this note being longer than the actual story, I just wanted to say that I hope you all enjoy this story (and don't forget about Vaire!)

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter, or anything relating to the Harry Potter series. No profit is being made off of this. Though I suppose I am the co-owner of the idea behind this story.

**Warnings: **Mature language and content, a little bit of violence, and yaoi. Sweet, sweet yaoi. Otherwise known as BL or slash for those less Japanese inclined.

* * *

**_Imperfect Heirs_**

_Chapter 1: The Not-Quite Beginning_

_It is a difficult thing for a man to resist the natural necessity of mortal passions._

_-Plutarch_

* * *

Marcus bit his lip harshly, barely containing himself as he felt Harry run a hand over his chest, caressing his muscles in one moment, and leaving little bloodied crescent marks the next as he dragged his nails over him. The little minx had been teasing him all fucking night, staring at him lustfully, uncaring that he was undressing Marcus with his eyes right in the middle of another useless fundraiser set up by the Ministry. Surrounded by onlookers half torn between horror and lust, Marcus had been unable to throw Harry over a table or any other relatively horizontal surface (though a wall would suffice he supposed) like he had wanted to, no matter how tempting the thought was.

But now, they were almost home, and Marcus had been waiting long enough to fuck his little lover as punishment for the torture he had been put through.

Harry stopped walking down the street, his ass stopping its enrapturing shaking Marcus' only indication that his younger lover had halted. The green-eyed tempter leaned up, licking the blood Marcus' had unknowingly spilled as he bit his lip, and Marcus felt himself harden even further than he had thought possible.

"I had an idea," Harry murmured wickedly against his older lover's lips, and Marcus almost groaned for a reason entirely non-erotic. The last time his lover had gotten an "idea" as he called them, the Potter-Flint fortune had increased exponentially as Harry sold the first of a number of home-made porn tapes to the general public. Marcus had pissed, no one else was deserving of seeing Harry's body!, but Harry had silenced his protests with a kiss and a lascivious look.

Damn tease.

"We're not making any more porn," Marcus growled, hands clutching Harry's hips roughly.

"I know that," Harry teased, leaning forward to lick a stripe up Marcus' neck. "Just…trust in me okay?"

Marcus fell silent, his mind racing as he bit down on the side of Harry's neck. The younger brunette's low moans set off the veritable light bulb over Marcus' head, and he smirked to himself as he bit Harry's collar bone, lapping up the blood that spilled. From his Seventh year at Hogwarts, Harry's Fourth, on, his trust in the young savior had proven to be repeatedly well-placed. Although Harry had hated even the thought of it, Marcus had entered into Voldemort's Death Eaters during Harry's Sixth year as a spy for the light, much like Snape.

Harry had cursed him the first time he had saw Marcus' Mark. Marcus had replied that it would give him motivation to finish the war as fast as humanly possible. Harry had punched him in the face and had promptly gone off and murdered the bastard.

Marcus knew his little lover well, and knew that hidden behinds his surface-level Gryffindor persona, there lay a mind that thought on levels incomparable to others. While many people had been confused at Harry's darker transformation following the end of the war, Marcus had been beyond thrilled. Harry was flourishing in to who he truly was, and with every day that he saw Harry, not the Boy-Who-Lived or Lord Potter, reveal himself to the world, Marcus felt himself fall in love with him even more.

Not that Harry had believed him with his damnable insecurity issues; no, that had taken fucking him through the dinner table of the apartment they shared to finally get it through Harry's thick skull that maybe Marcus had more than friendly feelings for him.

No matter how un-Slytherin it sounded, Marcus trusted Harry whole-heartedly and implicitly, even though that trust sometimes led to the entire Wizarding World and then some seeing them fuck each other for a profit. Even with those mishaps in mind, Marcus murmured an affirmative against Harry's collar bone. His tempter smirked and apparated them away, surprising Marcus for barely a second that he had done it without the customary wand-drawing and heel-turning.

Marcus resisted the urge to hit himself upside the head the next moment; this was Harry he was thinking about, master of all things technically impossible. Of course he could apparate more easily than the common mortal.

Marcus glanced around, trying his best to ignore Harry who had managed to slip a hand far enough up his shirt to play with a nipple. His brow furrowed; had Harry really apparated them here?

"Twelve Grimmauld Place?' Marcus asked.

Harry merely smirked impishly, grabbing the front of Marcus' shirt and dragging him towards the front door. "Keep an open mind, okay love?"

Marcus stared as Harry unbuttoned his shirt, kissing each revealed patch of the elder's skin. Harry's magic thrummed underneath his skin, betraying his hidden arousal and excitement, and Marcus let out a low growl at the intoxicating feeling. The older man ran a hand through Harry's pitch black hair, smirking as his fingers trailed with unexpected softness from the tresses to the pale shoulders they lay against.

"As you wish," Marcus whispered, kissing Harry firmly as his shirt dropped to the floor as they stepped through the door, grabbing his lover by his arms and slamming him against a nearby wall. Whatever Harry had planned, Marcus would go along with without any more hesitation, doing whatever his little lover wanted him to do.

He loved him too much to do otherwise.

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So, first thoughts anyone?

Just as a precaution, I would like no one to think that I am abandoning my drabble series; in fact, the next chapter should hopefully be up tomorrow. Also, this is just a small, quick fic; although I personally see a lot of potential in this, I am going to try my best to reign in the plot bunnies for this idea. I have other things to write/do.

In any case, reviews are loved and always appreciated, and are an easy way to get in my favor (read: I'll love you forever). So please review!

Until next chapter!

Ariaeris~


	2. Chapter 2: Descent

First of all, thank you to everyone who has reviewed, added this story to their story alert list, and/or favorited me and this story. I love all you guys!

As you all may or may not have noticed, I actually have a new fic up! It's Marcus/Harry as well, and is for Kitsunekiri, who is celebrating his/her birthday today (even though it occurred last week). S/He also promised me a fic (Rodolphous/Harry/Rabastan. Squee!), so go check it out if it is up!

Talking about birthdays though leads me to my next point; it is officially MY BIRTHDAY TODAY! So leave me a review as a birthday present, no matter how short or long it is (even just a 'hi' or a 'happy birthday' is more than fine) and I will adore you forever. And, as Kitsunekiri can most likely attest to, being beloved by me actually fucking rocks as I've been told. Yes, my modesty knows no bounds. Thank you for pointing that out to me.

In any case, enjoy the chapter!

**Disclaimers/Warnings: **Nothing really has changed. I still don't own Harry Potter, and this still has mature content. And this fic is still awesome, but that's a given anyway.

A warning for the wise: you really have to have read Vaire's fic to understand some of the points of this chapter, but again, you can read this separately if you wish. You just won't be getting the full content, and the last thing I want to do is deprive you all of Vaire's excellent fic.

Now, forward march!

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**_Imperfect Heirs_**

_Chapter 2: The Morning After_

_Why care for grammar as long as we are good?_

_-Artemus Ward_

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Marcus awoke to the soft chorus of chirping birds outside and he shifted, burying his face in Harry's neck to avoid the far-too-bright sunlight streaming through the open window. His lover's soft chuckling fully roused him though, and Marcus bit Harry's shoulder in retribution. It was far too early in the morning to deal with Harry's teasing.

"It's almost noon," Harry said amusedly, running his fingers through Marcus' short hair. The older man groaned and tried to bury his head in Harry's chest, pondering all the while if Harry was able to legilimency as easily as he could apparate.

"Too early," Marcus grumbled, nuzzling Harry's chest. There was an annoying little thought niggling at the back of his mind, but Marcus was too tired to try and figure out what he had forgotten.

"Marcus," Harry sang, leaning down to brush his lips against the shell of Marcus' ear. "Remember, love."

Marcus stared into Harry's emerald eyes curiously as he went over the past day. Sex, lunch, sex, Ministry-funded charity-thing, going back to Twelve Grimmauld Place…

"We had sex," Marcus deadpanned, a suspicious twitch developing over his right eyebrow.

"We often do," Harry chirped, pushing Marcus over onto his back and draping himself over his elder lover, looking far too pleased for Marcus to be comfortable.

"With a painting," Marcus hissed, closing his eyes as he tried to block out the memories of the previous night.

"Yep," Harry replied, popping the 'p.' "Wasn't it grand?"

"No! It wasn't!" Marcus exclaimed, glaring. "And you planned that…that encounter!"

"I did," Harry assured shamelessly. "It had always been a fantasy of mine; see if I could shut that Black bitch up."

"I don't want to go downstairs," Harry hummed questioningly against Marcus' neck, so he continued. "We'll have to pass by her painting to get out of here."

"I probably could apparate us out of here if I tried…" Harry mused, and Marcus foolishly allowed himself to hope a bit. "But that would be no fun whatsoever!"

Marcus grimaced; he should have known better than to bank on Harry's non-existent mercy.

"Why would you even want to…? Marcus asked helplessly, unable to even understand his lover's motivations.

"Why wouldn't I?" Harry smirked lazily. "You wouldn't let me have my fantasy of us joining in with the rest of the original Slytherin Quidditch team for a little fun, so I thought I'd just take matters into my own hands for once."

"Of course I wouldn't!" Marcus growled, gripping Harry possessively. "Those guys are sadists – literally. You don't want to know what went on in the locker room back then."

"Did you ever join in with them?" Harry asked, tracing little designs on Marcus' bare chest.

"No," Marcus snorted. "I'm not into pain." Harry dragged his fingernails across Marcus' chest sharply, and the Slytherin winced apologetically. "Okay, maybe a little is okay, but nothing anywhere near their level."

"So who'd you get off with at school?" Harry smirked at Marcus' mildly offended look. "Please, Marcus. We fuck on average three times a day you horny bastard, and while I am in no ways not appreciative of your libido, I also know there is no way you waited until me to release yourself on the world. So, who were you with?"

"Wood," Marcus grumbled. "Only him." The elder brunette refused to look at his younger lover, but Harry's light laughter drew Marcus' gaze back to him.

"Really? Harry smiled brightly. "Me too!"

"What!?" Marcus shouted, stunned at Harry's blasé confession.

"Hm? You didn't think that I got on the Gryffindor team just because of my natural talent, did you?" Harry taunted. "Well, not with my talent at Quidditch that is."

"That pedophile," Marcus hissed, gripping Harry's arms tight enough to leave bruises.

"Your just jealous that Oliver got my virginity and you didn't, darling," Harry leaned in, kissing Marcus on the lips before breaking out of his tight hold and leaping to his feet. "Now, get up; we have a picture to meet."

Marcus pulled him back onto the bed, groping him with a wicked smirk. "Give me ten minutes more and I'll have your mind changed about apparating us out of here."

"Ten minutes? Such low expectations," Harry sighed, batting Marcus on the nose with a finger. "You should be more considerate of me; the price of a side-along apparition is a massage, followed by a nice long fuck."

"Prostituting your magical capabilities?" Marcus frowned, nipping at a love bite he had made some time last night.

"Only to you," Harry smirked. "I thought I'd make a profit out of you constantly throwing me onto every nearby horizontal surface."

Marcus merely huffed, and flipped him onto his back, Harry laughing the entire time.

* * *

Walburga huffed in a much less pleased manner as her two heirs started screwing each other for the umpteenth time. Just because they had provided her with the most action she had had in a few decades did not mean that they could just go on all night without leaving her to rest!

Walburga drew her curtains around her, an action that would have sent any of the former-Order members into respiratory shock if they had seen her, and swore she would never shout at any visitors to her manor again. She could empathize with her victims now; loud rackets were really no fun at all!

* * *

So, how was it everyone?

Remember, today is my birthday, and for good little girls and boys (like me), birthday gifts are to be given on such a day. So review, tell me what you think of this fic, and bathe in the resulting admiration on my part.

And, while you're at it, why not wish a happy birthday to Kitsunekiri (whose birthday was last week), or Phee-chan whose birthday was yesterday?

Until next chapter,

Ariaeris~

Ps: Vaire-love, I've left you with a lot of material to work with. I hope it helps with your prequel!


	3. Chapter 3: Towards Pt 1

As anyone can see, this chapter is very short and probably very rough - I'll replace it when I get back.

Back, you say? If you really want to know, my father and I are going out of state for a few days, and I wrote this in the thirty minutes before we left. Even now, he is downstairs waiting for me to finish up.

Understandably, this is quite a bit rushed. Please forgive me, and I will replace this with an extended and edited version once I get back on Friday. I just really wanted to post this before I left.

Until then,

Ariaeris~

**New note:** Screw replacing this chapter; I'm a review whore, and if I can get more reviews by posting the second half as a new chapter, then I'm going to do that! Chapter 4 will be up soon!

* * *

**_Imperfect Heirs_**

_Chapter 3: No, Harry is not a Gary-Stu, Abby _

_or_

_I'm disappointed that you would even think me so low as to write one_

_or _

_There will soon be a humorous oneshot about Harry being sue-ful. Combined with that one review that wanted Flint-Potter babies_

_or_

_Wow, these titles are meta_

__

Don't you like writing letters? I do because it's such a swell way to keep from working and yet feel you've done something.

__

-Ernest Hemingway

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Heavy footsteps woke Walburga from her slumber, the deceased Black heiress rubbing her eyes discreetly in order to not appear as if she had been _sleeping_ of all things. Blacks were supposed to be perfect in her eyes – the last thing they needed was something as mortal as _sleep_.

She glanced over to the stairs that led up to the upper floors, and consequently the bedrooms. Merlin knows she had been kept up for most of the night thanks to the Flint boy's rutting with Potter. Seems like the finally stopped; a clock barely in her line of vision told her that it was approaching noon. She hoped for their sake that they had gotten at least some sleep last night; she had a bone to pick with them, and it was no fun picking on people too impaired to snark back at her.

"Listen here you -" Whatever she was going to say died on her lips at the sight of the pair.

Marcus, still shirtless (did he have something against shirts), had a thick arm around Harry's waist, one large hand splayed possessively against his lover's hip. Though he looked admittedly delicious, all rippling muscles and stern glares, Flint was not what caused Walburga Black to shiver in her painting in half-fear, half-arousal.

No, that was Harry. Harry Potter, emerald eyes alit with something demonic, something that possessed him ad made him seemed wild in a way that took your breath away. Magic crackled in the air around them, and Walburga watched in fascination as the hairs n Marcus's arm stood at the tangible electricity that coursed through the room.

Something had changed – Harry had changed. Walburga had known the Potter heir for a startlingly long time. She had witnessed his transformation from a naïve little boy, to a quiet young man, to the tempting little minx most saw him as following the defeat of the Dark Lord. But now…

The savior seemed almost feral. His eyes (that Walburga faintly remembered his mother had had, that she had seen once when her oldest son had brought her over along with his rag-tag bunch of misfits once when he had thought her away. Despite being a mudblood, she had been just as startling and captivating as her son) that she had just seen as demonic almost caressed her painted skin, and she felt her non-existent blood race at his hungry gaze.

The younger brunette sauntered over to stand in front of her painting, his older lover following him like a lost puppy. Walburga almost snorted; more like a guard dog. Harry, standing in front of her, hand on his cocked hip, smirked in a Slytherin way that had no place being on the face of someone who was supposed to be the archetypal Gryffindor.

Walburga realized with a start that, no matter how long she had observed him, she had never truly known him. Not that she had ever wanted to (he was unworthy in her eyes), but even now, she was not sure she wanted to see what lingered behind the remnants of Harry's mask. There was something addicting about Harry – Walburga was sure that if she even thought for a moment on who Harry really was, she would be compelled to seek him out, try to discover who Harry was.

Her dark eyes glanced over to who she considered a proper pureblood heir (or at least one whom she could see as the perfect heir); becoming addicted to Harry could be a dangerous thing indeed. Marcus defined his life around the little sable-haired savior. Even she could see that he had given his heart away; it left him vulnerable, gave him a weakness that could be exploited. And yet Marcus seemed ecstatic about having such an obvious flaw; could he really be so far in love with Harry that such affection seemed like a benefit to him?

She would ponder such thoughts later; for now, she focused on Harry, who had leaned forward and placed his hands on either side of her once-body. His grin was teasing now, less darn and less ominous. Somehow, Walburga did not feel comforted in the slightest.

"Walburga, dear," Harry drawled, running a pale, fragile finger down her oiled-face.

"I have an idea."


End file.
